


Unwinding

by twined



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crowley's magic hands, Dirty Supernatural Imagines, F/M, Gen, M/M, Massage, Multi, Other, backrub, imagine prompt, non-gender specific
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twined/pseuds/twined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly vicious hunt, Crowley offers up a massage to soothe your aching muscles. You only hesitate for a moment. (Crowley x Reader, gender nonspecific. Written for Imagines tumblr prompt_</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwinding

After ten days, one kidnapping, and a particularly vicious fight, you had finally ganked the skin-walker plaguing a small town in Illinois. Why was it always creepy small towns? Why never a place with decent hotels and more than one choice in diner?

 

Your normal back-up had to drop out and pursue a case closer to home, so you were caught doing this one on your own. There was no hospital for miles, and you didn’t feel like explaining a stab wound at the moment anyway, so you just pulled into your dingy motel and uncovered your medical kit.

 

First thing, you downed three painkillers with a shot of whisky. Splinting your own sprained wrist was tricky, but not as tricky as stitching two wounds using only your remaining hand. After all that you gave a half-hearted attempt at bathing yourself without submerging the bandages.

 

Then it was another shot of whisky, and then one more. You groaned. The lukewarm bath hadn’t done much to ease your sore muscles, tense after almost twenty hours tied to a garage pole followed immediately by chasing your captor a few miles and stabbing him repeatedly with a silver dinner fork (What can you say? Desperate times.)

 

You collapsed, sitting on your bed, bottle still in your fingers, unwilling to lie back yet because you had a feeling it would just hurt more. It was while you were rubbing your eyes and groaning, willing away the rising headache, that a voice made your head snap to the corner opposite you.

 

“Hello, love.”

 

“…I’m not in the mood tonight, Crowley.”

 

The King of Hell lounged in the scratched wooden chair like it was a throne and surveyed your wounds. You wore only sweatpants and underwear, avoiding the stretching awkwardness of getting a new shirt on. The old clothes, cut from your body, were soaking in the sink.

 

“What tried to eat you?”

 

“Skin-walker. Not so much eat as rip me to little bits and make a mosaic out of them. I was gonna be a Starry Night.”

 

“ _Impressionism._ Uhg, he could at least show some taste.”

 

“I don’t think you can do photorealism with little chunks of gut.”

 

His wicked grin made your hair stand on end.

 

“That wasn’t a _challenge,_ Crowley.”

 

“You’re no fun.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“Can I not come visit my favorite human?”

 

“Look, in case you didn’t notice, I’m exhausted, pissed off, and in a lot of pain. I’m not interested in social calls.”

 

“I could fix those up for you. If you like.” He eyed the vicious rip in your abdomen.

 

“No thanks. Don’t want your demon mojo.”

 

He sighed, walking over and picking up your bottle, then making a face. He snapped his fingers and it became one of his fancy-schmancy scotch drinks.

 

“Hey!”

 

He raised an eyebrow.

 

“I like Wild Turkey!”

 

Tumblers appeared in his hand, and he poured you two fingers. “You’ll like this better.”

 

You gave him a sullen glare, but sipped the drink anyways. And you definitely did not admit that it was pretty good. You continued to glare as he sank to the bed beside you, pouring his own glass.

 

“I’ve never known you to act without ulterior motives,” you noted.

 

“Generally, I don’t.”

 

“So why are you here?”

 

“Third time’s the charm, is it?”

 

“That’s what they tell me.”

 

“How about a backrub?”

 

Your head snapped towards his again, and you cringed as your neck protested the sudden movement. “What?”

 

“No mojo. Just warm hands soothing that tension out, love. I’ve got a few centuries’ practice, you know.”

 

On the one hand, you didn’t want the King of Hell thinking he could just touch you whenever. On the other hand, a back massage sounded freaking amazing right now. You sighed, took another sip, and nodded.

 

“Turn a bit.”

 

You did, and groaned at the first touch of his hands on your neck. He worked your shoulders slowly, feeling for knots and watching for any twinges of pain. Your head fell forward and your eyes closed.

 

“Good?” he whispered against your ear.

 

“Yeah,” you breathed.

 

You moaned when he moved down the wide muscles of your shoulder blades, kneading the pressure away effortlessly.

 

“Keep that up, love, and I might get excited.”

 

You pointedly refused to respond.

 

“Not that I would mind, of course…and I don’t think you really would, either. Clearly you’re enjoying my hands on you...”

 

“Whatever. Only because I’m hurt.”

 

“Oh? Is that why your heart is racing, now?”

 

You could feel his breath along your neck. His thumbs moved to the tissue up under your shoulder blades, and you had to bite your lip to stay silent. Whatever he was doing, it _was_ good—way better than the lukewarm bath.

 

“Is that why you’re imagining my hands running everywhere, on every seam of your body?”

 

“Stay out of my head!”

 

Crowley laughed. “I wasn’t in your head. I didn’t need to be, and now you’ve admitted as much.”

 

“Damnit, Crowley.” You moved to get up, _so_ not dealing with his shit right now, but his grip on your shoulder held you down.

 

“Don’t. I’m not done yet.”

 

“Then stop talking like that.”

 

“Like…?”

 

“You’re the fucking king of Hell, figure it out.”

 

That comment was followed by a particularly hard shove into a knot at your lower back. You winced—and maybe squeaked, but you’d put a shiv in anyone who said so—but then, miraculously, it felt better. Not just better—amazing. It kept you the hair’s breadth away from cussing the demon out.

 

“You’ve been avoiding it since the moment we met, doll, but we both feel this. Chemistry. That’s what they call it—when you can’t see me without imagining tipping heads and yanking hair and finding out what I taste like.”

 

His voice was soft enough to be nearly a dream, and combined with his incredible hands, something in you relaxed and just let him talk. It wasn’t as though he were lying.

 

“I promise you that I know things you cannot imagine, not yet…” His subtle accent became more pronounced as the timbre of his voice lowered, “There are things I imagine, though. Your voice moaning my name. Your face while I touch you. Your pulse beneath my lips.”

 

Your mouth moved, but you couldn’t articulate words. You’d dreamed about the King of Hell for—well, for years, now. His wit and deviousness and red eyes and that delicious accent—okay, so you might have had a problem.

 

“I thought you’d be responsive. Good to know I was right.”

 

His hands hit that spot again, and you didn’t hold back your moan this time.

 

“I could play your body and listen to your cries for ages. You would forget everything but my name, your vision would go white…”

 

You welcomed him with a groan as his hands began to wander. One kept you firm against his chest, exploring you lightly. The other found its way beneath your pajamas to find you ready and waiting. He hissed.

 

“Just like I said. Responsive.”

 

Somehow, all your exhaustion was left behind with his strokes. The friction and heat—surely he was cheating with demon mojo, somehow, but you didn’t care. All you could feel were tightening coils of pleasure wrapping through your body. His breathing got heavier with yours as he cajoled you to lay your head back, to moan louder, to give in.

 

You bucked your hips, but his arm around your waist kept him in control.

 

“Love, I could play at this forever. Keeping you on the edge… Making you beg. Oh, how I’d like to make you beg.”

 

Your own squirming got more desperate as you forgot all the reasons you had fought this for so long.

 

“Or make you purr. I can teach you how to ride the crest beyond oblivion, how to make a demon groan in pleasure. I will unbury every secret from your body. I will make you ache for me nightly. Long for me. Pray to me.”

 

Your movements became more frenzied and he seemed to take pity on your keening requests.

 

“Darling, you’re going to come for me. And once you do, once you seize up and scream for me, you will. Be. Mine. No one else can ever give you that much pleasure. My face will be in your mind every time you touch yourself.”

 

Every word, now, was punctuated by a stroke.

 

“Do it now, love. Come for me. Come on my hands.”

 

Helplessly, you complied, arching into him and forgetting how to see, hear, or breathe. Forgetting everything but those glorious fingers and sin-dripping voice. And you forgot until all your muscles were limp and he delicately drew his hand away.

 

“Thanks for the backrub.”

 

He chuckled low in his throat. You held up your splinted wrist.

 

“I, uh…I’m not sure if I can—”

 

“No worries, love. I’ll get my due.” His whisper sent shivers through you.

 

It wasn’t long after that he disappeared and let you fall back to your bed. It wasn’t like he slept, and he couldn’t expect morning sex—honestly, you didn’t think you could sleep alongside a demon, either. Your limp body thanked him for the release, though. Without it, you probably couldn’t have slept.

 

It was either a shame or a wonder that those fifteen minutes were the best and most memorable sex of your life.

 

Even though he left shortly after, his seven last words kept you awake a long while, imagining.


End file.
